Every day at around noon, there is someone who steps out into the frigid cold and launches a balloon. And every time, that weather balloon provides yet another new snapshot of what is happening on Planet Earth, or at least on Svalbard, a chain of islands in the Arctic Ocean.

What that balloon has found over the years is that temperatures are rising. And nowhere are they climbing as rapidly as they are here on the 79th parallel in Ny-Ålesund, one of the northernmost settlements in the world. It is a place populated almost entirely by scientists, aside from the handful of people who keep the place running. Eleven countries finance scientific research projects here in the ice and snow – in an attempt to learn more about how our climate is changing.

The discoveries made here affect us all. And yet, far fewer people would know about them if it weren’t for Esther Horvath. She is one of the best-known photographers of her generation and has spent years accompanying expeditions and research programs in the Arctic and Antarctic on behalf of the Alfred Wegener Institute and of media outlets like National Geographic and the New York Times. With her photos, she has managed to do what science alone sometimes has trouble with: creating understanding, arousing curiosity and establishing a connection between the ice and the rest of the world.

"The darkness forces me to concentrate really intensely," Horvath says. Because of a COVID infection, Horvath did not disappear into the eternal night of the Arctic winter as planned in December, instead forcing her to spend her time in Hamburg. Still, Horvath seemed unexpectedly serene given that she had just missed a trip for the first time in her entire career. Gazing quietly out the window, she said: "To really understand things, you need quite a bit of time anyway."

And each trip to Svalbard does, in fact, require a significant amount of time. Getting there takes days, not hours, and the journey to Ny-Ålesund involves several airports, with the last airstrip involving planes landing and taking off on ice. If there is a storm, delays can be extensive. Even the most experienced pilots can only fly when nature allows for it.

The luggage limit for many trips is just 20 kilograms, even when Horvath is planning to spend several months on the island. And there is no Amazon on Svalbard, so those who work here need to have a precise idea of what they need and what they don’t. Horvath’s photography equipment already weighs several kilos on its own. Still, each trip is a privilege. Ny-Ålesund is home to the northernmost constantly operating research station in the world. For scientists, a stint at the site is often a career highlight for which they work several years and become highly specialized in a specific niche.

Research at the poles was long a male-dominated endeavor, and even today, the best-known personalities are the grizzled faces of men on dogsleds competing for yet another deed of derring-do as they seek to survive everything nature throws at them.

Today’s reality, though, is rather different. Those who come to Svalbard for research, with stays generally lasting for 15 months, tend to have extremely busy schedules and often work seven days a week. Almost half of the AWIPEV team – an acronym that reflects a 2003 decision by the Alfred Wegener Institute and France’s Institute Paul-Émile Victor to merge their research stations – is made up of women. The share is lower in other expeditions, but there too, it is growing. The frontiers of the human populated world, it would seem, are home to greater equality that some other areas of science.

To show that reality, Esther Horvath has for years been taking portraits of female researchers at work as part of her series "Women of Arctic Science." Each of the women is an expert in their area – yet all of them, including the photographer, share the fact that they are pioneers.

Living on Svalbard means coming to terms with the surroundings, and with the eternal darkness in winter and the unending brightness in summer. With frigid temperatures and seclusion. The island is still home to more polar bears than people, and strict preparations must be made ahead of each and every research excursion outside the station.

Usually, says Horvath, the polar bears are just curious. And to keep it that way, a number of strict rules have been established. The bears are prevented from coming within a kilometer of the research station and people may not wander outside the settlement by themselves. If one of the animals does come too close, warning shots are fired using orange signal munitions, but sometimes, live ammunition is used. For most purposes, a simple hunting rifle is sufficient, but helicopter pilots are allowed to carry .44 caliber revolvers for protection.

If you do run into a polar bear, it is important to know where to shoot, says Horvath. "If you shoot too low, the animal might not hear the shot. And if you shoot too high, you might trigger it to run in the wrong direction." She learned how to shoot at polar bears before her first expedition at a firing range in Bremerhaven, Germany, including an actual bear model. Thus far, she has never had to use her training. The photographer had her closest encounter when she was on board the research ship Polarstern, when two bears wandered over to inspect the scientific equipment researchers had placed on the ice. The photos she took of the bears won Horvath her first World Press Photo award.

Aside from polar bears, Svalbard is also home to whales, seals and polar foxes. The researchers are also accompanied by a handful of sled dogs, who only follow Norwegian commands. But now, in winter, life largely disappears from view, with just one single species of bird remaining on these islands at the edge of the Arctic until springtime. Often, there is complete silence.

"The greatest challenges are the cold and the darkness," says Horvath. "Everything moves slower in the cold and my hands hurt. Lighting is a challenge in the strong wind and it is often hard to focus the camera at all in the dark."

On several occasions, mechanical parts of her SLR camera have frozen during shoots. She also often wears two pairs of gloves, one over the top of the other, only taking them off briefly to change camera settings – and she goes through seven or eight batteries each day, since their performance plunges along with the temperature.

For her portraits of the women researchers, Horvath photographed them in the middle of the Arctic winter, bundled up in the snowsuits they wear while working. Because the sun had completely vanished for a number of months, all of the light for the photos came from artificial sources. During other expeditions, Horvath even asked ships like the Polarstern to help out with illuminating a shoot.

Most of the props in the photos are tools used for work. Aside from books and knitting needles, the researchers have little room in their luggage for private belongings.

The women in the Arctic prove almost daily that they are more than up for the challenges they are confronted with. The tone is generally friendly within the teams, Horvath says, and typical gender roles are largely absent.

Still, there are things – some of them rather banal-seeming – that need to be discussed. Where, for example, can you make a quick pitstop should the need arise when out in the field? How can you change a tampon in the icy Arctic winter? Horvath and several other women established a loose discussion group to address such issues. And, she says, she thinks the men of Ny-Ålesund should do the same.

Many workdays get started at 6 a.m., and they often last until midnight. The work takes place when the conditions allow for it, and all those who are on Svalbard for research want to maximize their time in the Arctic Circle. To give the scientists the greatest possible amount of time for their work, there are employees who cook for them and provide other support. Aside from the researchers, though, nobody lives in the research station itself.

Despite the challenging conditions, Esther Horvath and the researchers she photographs are less concerned about the cold and the dangers they face than they are about the prospect of the ice melting. Average winter temperatures on Svalbard have risen by six to eight degrees Celsius since the early 1990s.

"It is clear to me that each of my photos in this environment is historic," says Horvath. "The world I am photographing is small and transitory. Nowhere is the environment changing faster. Who knows how much of this will still be around in 50 years?"

The researchers with whom she works take a similar view, she says. All are joined by the hope that their findings will improve the world’s understanding of climate change and perhaps thus make it possible to save the fragile ecosystems at the poles. That's why they have been going out at noon every day for the last several decades, no matter what the weather is like, to launch a balloon into the atmosphere. A balloon that will burst a few hours later.